Mercer's email landed mid-morning. No subject line, just two sentences: Client is available next week. Confirm if you're ready to meet.
The National Gallery. That name still sat like a weight in my mind. Not a collector, not a dealer — an institution. A name that could open doors, and not just to vaults of paintings. But why me? Why Victorian scraps and clearance-sale boxes? What did they think I could give them that they couldn't buy ten times over at auction?
I typed a reply, then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Finally, I wrote: Confirm. Name the time and place.
I hit send and sat back, the weight of it settling in my chest. This wasn't just about a deal anymore. It was about leverage — who had it, who didn't, and how long I could keep mine.
I opened Ashcombe's journal again, the same lines staring back like a dare: “Twelve leaves covering twenty-four days after the accession — 20 June to 13 July 1837. The days are ordinary, which is why they matter.”
Twenty-four days. A formation, not a flourish: the Household made to match the Whigs; the reliance named; the pledge of silence. If those leaves hold, they don't just tweak a page — they change the frame. And until I'm inside the Round Tower, the originals stay where they are: still locked away. Still out of reach.
If the National Gallery wanted something from me, I needed to know what they valued — and why. And if Mercer thought he was the only one playing a long game, he was wrong.